


Falling for the First Time

by dweadpiwatemeggers



Series: Emerald and Bronze [5]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Awkward First Times, Consent, F/M, First Time, Mutual Masturbation, Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27169474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweadpiwatemeggers/pseuds/dweadpiwatemeggers
Summary: A direct sequel to "Five Times Adam du Mortain Eavesdropped, and One Time He Did Something About It" - Charlotte and Adam do their best to make good on the conversation they'd had about where, exactly, they would like the physical side of their relationship to go. Rated E for later chapters.
Relationships: Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Series: Emerald and Bronze [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948069
Comments: 44
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

It’s amazing how quickly Adam’s touch soothes her nerves, how easily the brush of his fingers over her cheek can dissipate the tension. Charlotte leans into the warmth of his hand, brings her own up to hold his to her face.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

She smiles, “Adrenaline will do that.”

She wants to crawl into his arms, to bury herself against his chest. She wants relief, release. Something, anything to chase away the anxiety. He leans in closer, eyes locked on her lips, and yeah, ok, that’ll do. She leans forward, feels her knee hit his thigh, tilts her head up and yes, that’ll do just fine. Adam is gentle,  _ God _ , so gentle, fingers tracing back to cradle her head, to hold her close, and the way he kisses, she’d be swooning if they were standing, his lips barely brushing hers, like she’s something precious, delicate. 

But she isn’t. 

So she pulls his bottom lip between her own, runs her tongue over it and  _ mmm _ that does it - he pulls her a little closer, his hands hold her a little tighter, his kisses come a little rougher. She leans back, and he chases. Back and back until she is flat on the couch, his body caging her in, the blanket that had been on her lap now between them. And that won’t do. Charlotte reaches down with one hand, the other tucked firmly down the back of his shirt, and tries to shift the damn thing. Nothing. She tries again. Nope. She huffs, and he lifts his hips, makes a little space between them, his mouth never leaving hers. She works the blanket free, tosses it to the floor.

And,  _ finally, _ to feel the weight of him as he lowers himself back down, his leg between hers and their chests pressed together.  _ Finally _ , to have his lips on hers, and their hands on each other and to slip her tongue into his mouth and have him respond by pressing closer instead of running away. And  _ hngh _ to have him pressing closer like  _ that _ . His lips trail down the length of her jaw and find the spot behind her ear that has her squirming against his hard-muscled thigh between her legs, some hard and weighty thing poking rather insistently against her hip. Her nerves are no longer soothed. No, they are alive and  _ alight _ and there is entirely not enough space on this couch to get her hands all over him the way she’d like.

“I…” she begins, bites her lip to hold back a whine when he sucks on the spot where her shoulder meets her neck, “the bed is a little bigger than the couch.”

Charlotte isn’t sure what she expects his reaction to be. She knows more or less what she hopes for (a yes), but not what to expect. He pulls back, enough to look at her. His pale green eyes are glazed, lips pink, a little swollen, his cheeks flushed. He looks,  _ Jesus _ , he looks gorgeous. 

“If you’re … certain?”

She nods, “Yes.”  _ Oh, she’s certain _ . There are very few things that she’s ever been more certain about.

He leans back in to kiss her. And then the world is tilting on its axis. Whatever her hopes, whatever she had expected, it was not being carried, bridal style,  _ when and how had he managed that? _ , to her own bedroom, to be laid gently down on her bed, to have him roll over her, to cover her. 

But, she thinks, there’s nothing wrong with having your expectations surpassed. And there _ is _ more space here. Space to run her hands over his shoulders, down his back, feel the warmth of him pressed along the length of her body through the fabric of their clothes and,  _ why exactly? _ , should it have to be through fabric when she can just… flick her hands under the hem of his shirt and run them up the muscles of his back, over his sides. And how, in the name of all that’s good and holy, has she never done this before, never touched more than the barest amount of skin, a hand, a cheek, when the solid expanse of his back was an option? What the hell  _ had _ she been waiting for, if she could have had his mouth on hers and her tongue tangled with his and her hands all over him earlier. 

His shirt is bunched up around his chest. He pushes himself up, rocks back on his heels, and tugs it over his head, tosses it aside and

_ Holy. Shit. _

It’s one thing to guess, from the tight-fitting shirts that he wears, what he might look like without one. It’s another thing entirely to see. And …  _ Christ _ , she sits up, running her hands over the planes of his torso, oh,  _ fuck _ , it is a third thing altogether to touch.

“Good to know at least one thing that pleases you.” Adam is hoarse, and his smile would be insufferably smug if his breath didn’t catch when she ran her fingers across his collarbone.

“I could stop?” It’s an idle threat. There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that she’s going to stop, and she’s sure he knows it.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” he whispers, as his fingers trace up her sides, dragging her shirt up with them. He tugs it over her head, drops it over the side of the bed. She finds herself holding her breath as his eyes roam her exposed skin, looking at her in absolute wonder. She only breathes again when he runs his fingers over the lines of text that wrap inked over right-hand ribs. “I wouldn’t have guessed…”

She smiles, “I don’t seem the type?”

“Something like that,” he agrees, looking up to meet her eyes once more. “What is it?”

“From the Saga of the Greenlanders, Thorvald Eriksson finding a place to settle in Vinland.” She moves his hand over each word as she translates the medieval Icelandic script, “  _ ‘ _ _ Here it is beautiful, and here would I like to raise my dwelling.’ ” _

And the look he gives her before he leans in to kiss her again, his mouth fierce and desperate,  _ God _ , she might die from that look: like it is, and he would. But she doesn’t. Or maybe she does, and she’s at the gates to heaven, with his skin on hers, wrapped in his arms and his mouth driving her to distraction and even so, it’s not enough. Never enough. She wants more. If this is the gates… then… she reaches for his belt. 

He freezes. Pulls away, just a little.

Charlotte stops, pulls her hand back. “No?”

She tries to look at him, but Adam stays motionless. Eyes closed. Not even breathing. Says nothing. And this is all starting to feel a little too familiar.

She reaches her hand up, runs her thumb over a sharp cheekbone, and she feels him breathe. “Adam…” she feels him turn his cheek into her hand, “talk to me.”

“I just…” he drops his forehead to rest it against hers. “need a moment.”

“It doesn’t have to be tonight,” she says.  _ I can wait. I don’t want you to run from me after. Not like last time _ .  _ I want you to be ready.  _

He hesitates.

“We’re not ferrets.” She continues, feels as well as hears his huff of laughter. “We’ll survive waiting.” 

She presses on his shoulder when he doesn’t respond, gently, encouraging him to roll him onto his side. He obliges, and she winds her arms around his shoulders, fingers gentle as they stroke through his short hair. His are soft on her back, tracing up and down her spine. He isn’t pulling away. And that’s something.

“It’s getting late,” he whispers eventually. 

“There’s enough room for two,” she says.  _ There’s enough room for you _ , she means. “You could stay.” 

Adam pulls back far enough to look at her and that has her heart skipping, to be looked at like she’s offered him the world, instead of just offering space in her bed. But he doesn’t say anything, and she remembers what he said once about him not knowing unless she said it. So she tries to make her invitation clearer. “I would...like it, if you stayed.”

She watches him blink. Watches for any sign at all as he processes that, as his expression micro-shifts a dozen times before it settles into the softness that almost always means he’s giving in. “Then I’ll stay.”

And Charlotte can’t help the sigh of relief as she shifts closer, pressing her forehead to his again. “Good.”


	2. Chapter 2

The phone is ringing. 

The sun is shining in through curtains that weren’t closed properly, and the phone is ringing. 

Charlotte squeezes her eyes shut against the bright light, and rolls towards the nightstand, her hand groping around for where the device should be. Should be, but isn’t. And that’s… it should be there. It’s always there. That’s where she puts it every night. Her shoulder is cold, where it pokes out of the blankets. Apparently, she’s not wearing a shirt. And she’s still wearing yesterday’s bra. And yesterday’s leggings. And  _ that _ \- the phone is still ringing - is  _ not _ her ringtone. 

But it is Adam’s.

So… last night wasn’t a fever dream. It happened. She fell asleep in his arms. And either he forgot his phone, or...

She feels the bed move behind her, hears his voice, rough with sleep: “Hello?”

Charlotte rolls over, blinks as his profile comes into focus, silhouetted in the morning light streaming through her window. He’s lying on his back, phone pressed to his right ear, away from her. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can tell him that I’m  _ fine _ .” He pauses to listen to the response. “I don’t know.” He pauses again, and grunts at whatever was said before hanging up. He drops the phone back on the nightstand on that side of the bed and rubs his hands over his face.

“Trouble?” she asks.

“Evidently, Nate found my absence concerning.”

“Ah.” She suppresses a giggle. “Stayed out past curfew?”

“Apparently.”

This time she can’t hold it in, and a little giggle slips loose - they’re both adults, and here he is, centuries old, getting scolded for staying out past his designated bedtime.

Adam turns his head to look at her with a soft smile and a quirked brow, as if to ask  _ ‘what’s so funny?’ _

“I’ve never been a bad influence before,” she explains.

“And here I was,” he deadpans, “with such a good record.” 

That doesn’t help, and she begins laughing in earnest. “It starts with staying out late, then spending time with the wrong crowd, then who knows what else you’ll get tempted into.”

He reaches over to cup her cheek, gives her a fond smile. “I suspect there’s very little that you could not tempt me into.”

Charlotte sidles closer. “I’ll do my best not to abuse that,” she says,  _ as much as I’d love to _ , and leans in for a chaste kiss.

“My reputation thanks you for it,” he murmurs against her lips.

It’s...a little difficult to believe this is happening. That it’s morning and he’s still here. That he spent the night in her bed. And the bed is soft, his arm around her is warm, his chest is solid under her fingertips and she just wants to spin this moment out for as long as she can but... she swore that today would be the day she’d clear the backlog of paperwork waiting for her at the station. 

She sighs. “I should get up.”

He frowns. “You aren’t scheduled to work today.”

“No,” she agrees. “Unfortunately, the mountain of paperwork on my desk doesn’t particularly care about whether or not I’m on duty.”

He pulls her a little closer, presses his forehead against hers. “Then it also doesn’t care if it gets done in the morning or the evening.”

He makes a compelling point. And damn if it isn’t that much harder to get up, now. But… she had a plan. “If it doesn’t get done in the morning,” she says, pulling away a little, “it  _ won’t _ get done in the evening. I have an appointment with the world’s worst organized library tonight.”

She puts a little more space between them, and almost laughs at his expression - Charlotte had never considered that she might one day see Adam du Mortain pouting. She knows he’s on patrol tonight. Which apparently means he was counting on getting a little extra time with her this morning. She presses a kiss between his brows before she rolls over to get up. “I’ll wait for you to get back after?”

He grumbles something about that being tolerable.

**\---**

Charlotte finds it unusually difficult to focus on her work. The flow of her thoughts is constantly interrupted by memories (some rather more vivid than others, leaving her shifting in her seat) of what happened the night before, or of speculating on what might have happened that morning if she hadn’t dragged herself out of bed. Or of what might be waiting for her tonight. Eventually, she gets the paperwork done. Somehow. It only takes twice as long as she had initially estimated. Which still leaves plenty of time for the errands she had planned - groceries, getting her kitchen knives properly sharpened, returning her library books. If anything, there is a slight advantage in having her paperwork go so slowly: it eats up some of the time between morning and evening. 

She returns to her apartment, down a pile of paper and some library books, up a set of sharp knives and enough food for the week. She unpacks: puts aside the pre-made meal that she’d bought for dinner and a tin of cat food and sets everything else in its place, while Timbit, the Dark Prince of Apartment 302, watches on from his perch on top of the fridge.

He meows.

“Hm?” She continues unpacking.

He meows again.

She looks up. Tina swears sometimes that the cat is judging her. Until today, Charlotte has insisted that’s not only unlikely, but also ridiculous. Suddenly, looking into those bright yellow eyes, she’s not so sure. She does get the distinct sense that Timbit is passing judgement.

“Is it the dinner?” she asks, opening the tin of cat food.

He is silent.

“Is it that I left you alone all day?” She scrapes the contents of the tin into the clean food bowl.

He’s still silent.

“Is it because Adam stayed the night?” She places the bowl on the floor.

Timbit meows, and then leaps down. She takes that as a yes. He nibbles a few mouthfuls, then turns to meow again before continuing with his meal.

She takes  _ that _ to mean ‘and also because you’re thinking about doing it again tonight.’

She opens the container holding her own dinner, and tears back the paper covering one side of the wrap, muttering, “Just ‘cause you’ve been neutered…”

He flicks his tail directly into her ankle.

“...does not mean I have to behave the same way.”

Clearly he finds it beneath his dignity to respond, because he continues eating in peace, and leaves her to do the same. She balls up the packaging, tosses it in the trash and checks the clock. Enough time for a shower and to dry her hair. To maybe pick out something...nice? To wear? Does she even own anything nice? It feels like her wardrobe is all either work-wear or knit-wear and flannels.

But he has the wardrobe of a cartoon character, so maybe it doesn’t matter. It certainly hadn’t mattered last night. So maybe she’s overthinking this. She should just… stop thinking about what may or may not (hopefully  _ may _ ) happen. Just shower and get dressed and go.

Maybe a cold shower.

\---

In the end, it had been a lukewarm shower. Which was close enough to cold in a Wayhaven spring. It hadn’t really helped, except that she’d been more grateful to put on a sweater than she might have been otherwise. Charlotte is jittery driving to the Warehouse, her eyes flicking to the mirrors way more often than they need to, especially considering she’s the only one on the road.

This is worse than her first visit, almost a year ago, when she wasn’t sure of her feelings, let alone his. And he’s not even there, won’t be there for a few hours still. 

She meets Nate in the Library - he’s already read over what the list of what the Agency suggested, and has pulled out and bookmarked a bunch of supplementary material. Why he doesn’t just write the recommended reading lists himself, she’ll never know. 

Charlotte settles down on the couch to read over the chapter about magic detection, books spread out on the coffee table and a legal pad in her lap. It doesn’t go any better than her paperwork had this morning - she finds herself reading the same paragraph three or four times before she grasps the meaning, forgets what she’s writing halfway through a note. She notices Nate glancing over at her once or twice, failing utterly to suppress a smirk. He is at least gracious enough not to say anything, even after she checks her watch for what feels like the seventeenth time that hour. Eventually, he leaves the room for a moment, as she’s struggling through a passage about the various ways that runes can be disguised. When he comes back, it’s with glasses in hand: what she assumes is whiskey, neat, for himself, given his usual drink order, and a deep amber liquid in a brandy snifter for her.

She reaches up to accept the glass and asks, “What am I drinking?”

“Calvados.”

Apple brandy. From  _ Normandy _ . Somehow, it feels like a very expensive joke at her expense. She narrows her eyes at him. Nate gives her what she assumes is his best impression of an innocent smile in response. She doesn’t buy it. But the drink is...nice. Helps her relax, at least.

Until  _ he _ gets back. She can’t hear it, not right away, but she sees Nate’s reaction. She’d noticed months ago that it’s a different reaction for each member of Unit Bravo, and this is definitely a reaction to Adam’s presence: the slight straightening of the spine, the lift to his chin, the head tilt, ready to follow orders or to engage in conversation. And then she hears the footsteps: the rhythmic thudding of boots on the floor, not quite a march, but damn close.

The door opens. She wills herself not to look, not to be that obvious, even though they can probably - definitely - both hear the sudden jump in her heartbeat. Because she’s an adult, goddamnit, not a 16 year old with a crush, and she’s going to behave like one. But willpower isn’t her strong suit today. She peeks anyway. Adam is walking between the shelves, hands behind his back. He must have hung his coat somewhere else, because it was too cold for him to be patrolling in just a t-shirt, but that is what he’s wearing now - grey t-shirt, dark cargo pants, combat boots. He looks as he always does. And she feels as she always feels - that irresistible draw, that… magnetism.

She looks back down to her textbook as he starts to turn, making the mistake of catching Nate’s eye. He’s outright grinning. She’s tempted to throw something at him, adds it to her mental to-do list: finish this chapter, take notes from the additional readings, throw her pen right into Nate’s perfect tee- the couch sinks on her left.

The couch sinks, and she’s very aware of the person who caused it, sees large, solid hands flicking through pages out of the corner of her eye. And maybe the sweater hadn’t been the best idea. Because the temperature of the room just jumped several degrees, hadn't it? 

She’s probably blushing.

Nate coughs. Well, he laughs, and tries ( _ poorly _ ) to cover it with a cough. She’s going to have to have a brainstorming session with Farah tomorrow. Or maybe she’ll just introduce the Dewey Decimal system to this ‘library’. 

At any other time, at _any_ _other time_ , this arrangement, the three of them reading in silence, would be nice, companionable. But that other time would require that she not be hyper-aware of the heat radiating off the body next to her on the couch, that her thoughts not wander increasingly frequently to what that body and hers had been doing the night before. And what they had maybe, _sort of_ , implicitly agreed to revisit tonight. So it’s not nice. It’s tense. And uncomfortable. And she has read and re-read the same paragraph for the past fifteen minutes.

Nate makes a show of checking his phone. “Well, it seems as though I’m needed elsewhere,” he declares brightly, shoots her an unrepentant grin as he waves goodbye at the door. His phone hadn’t even gone off, the pest.

She has ten pages to go, if she could just...focus. She feels the couch shift again, feels Adam’s arm snake around her waist. That...will not help with the focus issue. Eight pages. He tucks his hand under the hem of her shirt, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over her hip. She bites her lip. Seven pages. He shifts closer, so that their thighs are touching, his breath hot on her neck. And he has to know how that has her heart racing. But dammit if she’s not going to get her work done because she was behaving like an adolescent. Six pages to go. And then five. And  _ then _ he leans in, kisses her neck, right where it meets her shoulder. Her eyes drift shut. He does it again, working his way up to her ear, and there’s nothing she can do to stifle the moan that escapes her lips.  _ Son of a bitch. _

Charlotte turns to face him. “I am trying,” she’s interrupted by a kiss, his other hand coming up to cup her cheek, “to learn something.”

“Are you suggesting,” he kisses her again, “that you’re not learning something at the moment?”

“I’m learning,” she smiles into the next kiss, “that you’re a distraction.”

He pulls her into his lap, one-handed. “Or maybe,” he says, around another kiss, “it's that you’re irresistible.”

She laughs, “Now, see, I know that’s not true.” She’s cut off when he presses his lips to hers again, continues, “You spent months resisting me.”

He chuckles, “Considering our current position... it would seem that I failed.”

She can’t really think of a response to that. And really, what’s the _ point _ in responding to that, when she could be kissing him instead. So she does. Sitting across his lap, with his arms around her back, holding her close to him, and her own wrapped around those broad shoulders. She does, again and again and again, and … she really  _ does _ need to finish those five pages. She pulls away, a little, feels him move to follow her, so she holds a finger up to his lips.

“Let me finish this chapter,” she says. “And  _ then _ you can distract me however you want.”

And for the second time in less than 24 hours, she’s graced with his scowling pout. “Fine.” 

She kisses his cheek, whispers, “I promise,” into his ear, as she shifts out of his lap, and does her best to turn her attention back to the book.

He grabs what he was reading off the coffee table and stands. She looks up. 

“I’ll be in my room when you’re finished,” he says, leans down to kiss her forehead, and marches out of the door. He closes it gently behind him, for once.


	3. Chapter 3

Charlotte blazes through the last five pages. And… it’s  _ possible _ that she doesn’t put her usual level of care into reading them. But she still finishes them, still piles the books on the side desk, her notepad on top, parallel with the rest to indicate that she had finished, and that they were safe to return to wherever Nate’s organizational system dictated that they go. She still tucks her reading glasses away in the case in her room. She still takes her empty glass to the kitchen to wash it out properly, dry it, and set it back in its place in the drinks cabinet. 

It’s not a delaying tactic. It’s manners. It’s kind of a delaying tactic. It’s not that she wants to delay… it’s just… to go to his room… with the express purpose… She almost wishes she’d let things go further in the library. It was easier when she didn’t have to think about it ahead of time.

She braces her hands on the card table, takes a deep breath, and plays a little game of  _ What’s the Worst That Could Happen? _ Worst case scenario: He’s changed his mind. She goes home alone and eats a pint of ice cream. Probability of occurrence: Unlikely. So that’s fine. Best case scenario: Involves at least partial nudity. Probability: Moderate to high. And that’s… good? Considering last night, and this morning, and what happened in the library just now… yes, that’s good. Very good. So, no reason to be nervous, then.

She takes another deep breath, shakes out her hands, rubs them dry on the sides of her jeans. She pulls her hair out of it’s bun and runs her fingers through it, wishing she’d thought to check the mirror in her room to see how it looks. Too late now. She makes her way through the maze of corridors to his room. Nerves don’t really respond well to logic. She still feels keyed up. Tense.  _ Off-kilter _ .

She’s not good at off-kilter.

But she’s here. In front of his closed door -  _ he couldn’t have made it easier on her and left it open? _ No turning back now. She raises her hand to knock, gets her fist up and... the door opens, Adam fills the space between it and the frame. His expression is serious, maybe even a little surprised, if the quick lift of his brows, the widening of his eyes, before it shifts back into his usual mask is anything to go by.  _ Did he think she wouldn’t come? _

“Hi,” she says, and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, just to give her hand something to do. She’s not sure where to look. 

“Hello.” Adam pulls the door open a touch further. His hand is still on the knob.  _ Maybe for the same reason? _ “Would you ...like to come in?”

He’s being oddly, incongruently formal, considering she’d been in his lap with his hands up her shirt less than half an hour ago. It’s kind of funny. It’s kind of cute. Charlotte steps closer, into his space, and trying her best to keep a straight face, says, “Unless you’d like to continue where we left off here on the threshold?”

His eyes flick to her lips, back up, and she sees the twitch of his mouth that betrays his suppression of a smile. “Not especially.”

“Then I’d like to come in.”

Adam steps out of her way, closes the door behind her. They stand there for a moment. Just… looking at each other. He moves first - she always, _ well, usually _ , waits for him to move first, it’s safer that way - steps closer and puts his hands on her hips. His head dips, and she pulls herself up by his shoulders to meet him halfway. 

And maybe there’s something to be said for delayed gratification. Because - his hands on her skin, under her shirt, press her close, leave her breathless - now they have the whole night ahead of them. And - lips part, breaths mingle, his tongue sliding over hers until she pushes back and hers is sliding over his - she’s not sure if she wants to rush or take her time. But - arms looped around his neck, her hands down the back of his shirt, his pushing hers up, up, and the kiss breaks long enough for them both to get it over her head, slam back together as soon as it’s free - it doesn’t matter. 

The brush of his nose against her cheek, the press of his mouth, of his tongue, the electric feel of his fingers as they trace up from her waist, over her ribs, running under the curve of her breast matter. His whispered “is this…?” and the thumb that immediately rubs over her nipple, draws out a quiet whimper, swallowed by another kiss, to her whispered “yes,” matter. The way he pulls his own shirt over his head when she twists her hand in the back of it and tugs, the way he draws her back in as soon as it’s carelessly tossed aside, the way her knees almost give out at the press of skin on skin, matters. The way they’re backing up - and she’s not sure if he’s leading, or if she is - lips never breaking contact, hands tracing over every available inch of exposed skin, until the backs of her legs hit the bed and she almost collapses onto it, that definitely matters.

She doesn’t fall, even though her knees give out. With his arm around her waist, he lowers her down gently. He lowers them both down, until she’s sitting on the bed and he’s kneeling on the floor between her legs, his hips just brushing the inside of her thighs. 

And if before he stoked a bonfire in her, bright and quick and searing, now she burns like charcoal. Slow: the soft lips, covering hers. Deliberate: the strong hands tracing up and down her back, the way one comes around, follows the lines of her tattoo. Smouldering: up...up, and  _ Christ _ , she can’t stop the whine, can’t stop her thighs from tightening on his hips, or the way her body arches towards him when he reaches under her bra to caress her breast. 

Why is she even wearing a bra. Charlotte reaches behind her back, snaps it open before it occurs to her to wonder  _ too fast _ ? But then he’s following the strap with his mouth as he pushes it down her shoulder, down her chest, following the fabric as he tugs it away and lets it fall to the floor. And then it’s not just his fingers,  _ Oh my GOD _ , it’s his lips, his tongue, tracing her curves and swirling around her nipple and she can’t… she’s clinging to him, biceps, neck, just to stay upright and she feels her hips move, seeking out something, any kind of friction at all, but there’s nothing, he’s too far… and she reaches, but she can’t quite… 

“Come closer,” she whispers.

And he does, the hand at her hip tugs her to the edge of the bed, his hips sliding against her thighs and...he hasn’t stopped, tugging and teasing and tasting at her nipples while she rolls her hips against the rock-hard length still tucked away in his pants. And she wants… she wants… this. His hands and his mouth wringing soft sighs from her lips and grinding her centre against him and she’s not sure if she’s being worshipped or devoured but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t. 

Until he stops. And she does her best not to groan in disappointment. He pulls back. Her eyes flutter open. He’s breathing hard, maybe even as hard as she is. But he’s not looking away, eyes dark and glittering in the half-light of his room. 

She reaches for his face, cups his cheek. “Alright?” She can barely get the word out.

Adam kisses her palm, offers a rueful smile. “I would prefer tonight not end  _ like that _ .”

Oh.  _ Oh _ .  _ Right. Long time no sex _ .

She smiles back, arches an eyebrow. “You have something else in mind?”

He doesn’t respond right away, but the look he gives her has a shiver running up her spine and heat pooling in her belly. He holds her gaze, as his hands graze her thighs, drift over her hips, and one continues, she bites her lip, along her waistband, to the button of her jeans. “Yes.”

She needs to not be wearing those.

“Show me?”

He doesn’t waste time,  _ they’ve wasted enough time _ , button and zipper undone, pants and underwear whisked off in a single fluid motion as she braces her hands against the bed for leverage. She feels a little… he’s kneeling at her feet, looking up at her with what she can only describe as reverence. She’s never been looked at like that before. It’s… a lot.

He leans up, hands skimming over her legs. “Tell me - ” he presses a kiss to the side of her neck, his voice husky, and she can feel every inch, every millimetre, where they’re touching, every place where they’re close - “what you need.”

She freezes.  _ I...what. _

He feels it, the way she stiffens suddenly, he must, because he pulls back, eyes flicking back and forth between hers. It’s too much - to be looked at, to be asked… to be… cherished, known. It’s too much. 

His hand is on her face, thumb brushing over her cheekbone, “Charlotte?”

She shakes her head, reaches out, pulls him closer and he comes willingly, arm wrapped around her back, and hand cradling the back of her head. She buries her face in the side of his neck. It’s...easier when she can’t see his face, can’t see his piercing eyes, like he knows every secret she’s ever kept.

“I just…” she says,  _ I just feel so exposed _ , “I need a minute.”

“It doesn’t have to be tonight.”

She laughs, softly. Because this is beginning to feel a little familiar. 

“Or…”  _ Just say something, just...spit it out.  _ And her nerves are quieting, a little, so close to him. _ It’s Adam. _ To be known by him, to have what she wants known by him… to be with him…  _ He wants to know, wouldn’t have asked otherwise _ . It won’t, can’t be an ordeal. 

“Or,” her voice is strangled, heart racing, but she manages to get the words out, “you could put a finger inside me,” he groans against her skin, his hands already moving, “and we’ll see how it goes from there.”

His pace is measured, as the hand that had been cradling her head drops to her thigh. Everything he does is measured, finger tracing up slowly along the imprint of the seam of her jeans. She bites her lip, head tipped back, and he takes the invitation to kiss his way up the length of her neck as his finger slides over from her thigh, through her folds. He’s barely touching her, and her heart’s jackhammering in her chest, but he doesn’t stop. She had asked for something, and clearly - Charlotte moans as his finger slips inside -  _ clearly _ he planned on giving her what she wanted.

She’s clutching at him - his arms, his shoulders - trying to hold herself up, but what he’s doing, fingers inside and thumb ghosting over  _ that _ point… She can’t, but he’s holding her up, pressing her body to his, kissing her around the gasps and moans. 

And somewhere, in the back of her mind, the only part that’s still functioning, that isn’t processing pure pleasure, she has a thought  _ not fair _ . And she finds the strength to reach for him again.

“I want,” she pants, hand gripping his belt buckle, “to touch you.”

Adam doesn’t stop, just uses his other hand to help her unbuckle the belt, push his pants down to his knees. And she can’t see, with his mouth on hers, has to trace the v of his hip down, until the velvet skin of his cock rubs against the back of her thumb, and she can feel where he is to take him in hand. His fingers twitch, dig into her back. He groans into her mouth, in counterpoint to her sigh. And evidently eight years or eight hundred don’t really erase the basics - he’s bucking into her hand and she’s rocking against his fingers as his thumb increases the pressure, just marginally, but it’s enough to have her seeing stars. 

“Is that...?” he asks.

“Yes.”  _ YES. _ “Just… don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t. Not when she cries out. Not when she arches her back, her fingernails scraping against his neck, not even when she goes limp in his arms. He doesn’t stop until she’s finished crashing down from the heights he brought her to, and her hand falls to his wrist to make him.

“We were...… you…” - she’s panting, trying to form a coherent thought, still working her hand up and down the length of his cock - “had a preference… about tonight?” 

“My preference,” he’s drawing a line of kisses down her jaw, down her neck, along her clavicle, “was that I not finish before we’d begun.”

“Then if I asked you to…” she feels herself flushing, “make love to me?”  _ God _ , it feels absurd saying it. Because who talks like that, really. But she wants… well, there’s a lot she wants. And anything else she can think of... it would be so… crass. She doesn’t want to  _ fuck _ . Not really. She just wants him, to, she doesn’t know, to be with him. To be close.

He stops. Pulls back. Looks into her eyes. Like he’s not sure he heard her right. Like he’s not sure she meant it. It takes everything she has to hold his gaze, not to look away, not to be ashamed for asking.  _ Tell me _ , he’d said,  _ what you need _ . And she does. She needs this.

Eventually, he speaks, “I cannot promise any great skill.”

She shakes her head, just a little. Because that really isn’t the point. “I just want it to be you.”

He nods, pulls her into a kiss of infinite tenderness as she pushes herself back on the bed, and they have to twist their way around until there’s space for both of them, until the blankets are pushed aside, her head is on his pillows, his arms braced around her, her hips framing his legs.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“Yes.”  _ God, yes _ . “Are you?”

“Completely.”

He enters her slowly, whether it’s to give her time, or himself, she can’t say. Slowly, and deliberately, watching her face for any sign of… she’s not sure what, exactly, distress, that she’s changed her mind, she doesn’t know. What he sees is a bitten lip, eyes fluttering shut, open, shut again. He kisses her, then, when he’s completely sheathed, or she kisses him. And it’s… a little awkward, the height difference, the way she has to tilt her head back, the way he has to lean to one side, but he moves, slowly and deliberately, and any awkwardness doesn't matter in the slightest. 

Because it’s  _ him _ . It’s  _ his _ arms around her and  _ his _ head in the crook of her neck and  _ his _ lips on her shoulder. It’s  _ his _ back under her hands.  _ His _ body melding with hers.

And that is what has her heart pounding, her head spinning, as much or more as how it feels when his pace speeds up, no longer slow and deliberate but quick and almost sloppy. 

It doesn’t take long, and they’re both panting, moaning, it doesn’t take long before he murmurs, “I’m…”

He doesn’t finish the thought. Doesn’t need to. She knew, he’d said, implied anyway, that it might not take much. “I want you to.”

She feels his hips jerk, two, three, four times before he drops his forehead to rest against hers, and he all but collapses into her arms. She runs her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, tips her head up to kiss him, the kind of soft kisses that don’t lead anywhere but carry so much meaning.

“You’ll stay?” he asks, eventually.

“Yes.” She doesn’t have to think about it. As though there  _ could _ be anywhere she’d rather be.


End file.
